I don't know why. I just couldn't help myself. God, im such a _mess. _The cold, uncomfortable tiles of the bathroom floor touching my skin, the subtle sound of the air conditioning, the soft molecules tickling my skin, never fail to overwhelm me.

The tissue's scattered around me are painted with blood red. The rusty blade in my bloodied hand serves as a reminder of what I do to myself every single day. Why even try? My body wont listen to my mind anyway. There's _no use in trying._